


Lucifer Whumptober Prompts

by PhoenixMorningstar



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bombing, Burns, Deckerstar - Freeform, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Issues, How Do I Tag, Hurt Chloe Decker, Hurt Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Lucifer Feels, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Needs A Hug, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Whump, Lucifer loves Chloe, Mentions of the Fall, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Betrayal, Protective Lucifer, Scared Chloe Decker, Whump, Whumptober Prompt, Worried Chloe Decker, Worried Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), michael is lucifers twin here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-12-20 19:23:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21061904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixMorningstar/pseuds/PhoenixMorningstar
Summary: A small collection of prompts for the show Lucifer based off whumptober.(will not include all 31 prompts)





	1. Shaking Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He remembers the Blade slipping from his grasp, but he can feel it in his hands, can still hear the distant murmur of Uriel’s last words, the floor against his knees as he knelt beside the body of his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote some prompts for fun and thought that they could be enjoyed so I made an ao3 account.
> 
> A short prompt to kick this off. Hope you all like it!!

Distantly, Lucifer is aware that his hands are trembling. He’s aware of the blood coating his fingers and the phantom feeling of the Blade in his hands, even though he remembers it slipping from his fingers when he’d knelt to the floor, mindlessly following the downwards momentum of Uriel’s hand gripping his shirt, pulling him close. He remembers, but he can still feel it, metal singing as his legs give out and bring him to the floor.  


Uriel was dead.  


Lucifer had killed him.  


Body lying still in his lap, last words lost to the pounding of his heart, blood seeping through the trench coat and onto him, Lucifer fights tears. Pulling his hands away, shaking, he looks at the blood coating them.  


“What did he say?” Maze stands beside him, looking ready to fight, to kill, except he’s already done that. He tears his gaze away from his stained hands, looking at her, lost.  


“I don’t— I don’t know. I couldn’t understand.”  


“Freak got what he deserved.”  


Shaking breaths, he looks down at Uriel, running his eyes over the still form, almost waiting for him to wake up, trying to come to terms with what he’s done. “He was my _brother.”_  


He looks to the ceiling then, the sky, the old home that lays beyond it. Eyes wide, he looks up at Heaven, half expecting his father to come down and smite him for his nefarious act, the murder of one of his angels, one of his beloved sons. It doesn’t come.  


Hands trembling, he tangles his fingers in his hair, eyes widening as he jolts away from Uriel’s body, pacing down the hall of the church, something sickening curling in his gut. There’s probably a word for this, but in his grief, his shock, he can’t name it.  


Linda — he needs the doctor. She could help, could talk him through his. Later. He needed to bury the body first. He clenches Uriel’s jacket in his fists, pulling the body over his shoulder. He carries him to the car. Drives to the woods, digs and digs and digs until he has a hole that could be called a grave. Rolling Uriel’s body into it, he flinches as it thuds against the bottom.  


Blade singing in his pocket, burning, he throws that in too. Then he covers the hole and leaves, vaguely wondering why everything is blurry.  


Suddenly he’s riding the elevator up to his penthouse, fruitlessly scrubbing his hands against his pants, his jacket, trying, trying, failing to get the blood off. Sticky, it stays, staining his tan skin a sick red that he can’t bear to look at. He looks at the lot interior, tries to breath, tries to calm down. This doesn’t feel real. He doesn’t feel like himself, he can almost watch as he idles in the small space, waiting for it to reach its apex.  


Ding, the doors open, his mother waiting inside, anxious, worried.  


“What happened?” She’s walking towards him, worry painted on the face of the human she’s wearing. Lucifer hardly hears her, focusing on stepping from the elevator. Slowing, he finally turns his gaze to her face, which drops as she takes in his disheveled form, the blood splatter on his shirt. “Where’s Uriel?”  


He tries to speak, to answer her. The words don’t come. He doesn’t know the right words to say right now and his mind is failing him. He can’t say it. She breaks down at his silence, taking sobbing breaths to soothe herself. Something rises in Lucifer’s chest, something like joy except it _hurts._ “What have I done?” He asks, watching as his mother breaks, as she begins to cry. He remembers his banishment, how she had stoically watched. Now, for Uriel, she cries. His chest aches.  


“No, no, no, no, no.” His mother reaches for him and instinctively, he walks into them. Planting his head on her shoulder as his control breaks, as reality sets in. He’s shaking, trembling in her arms and his face is wet. Crying, he’s crying. The devil doesn’t cry, but he’s sobbing. A wreck. He grips at her tightly, breathing heavily as he tries and fails to fight the onslaught of tears.  


He wets her shoulder with his tears, staring off at some unseen point as he breaks. He’s a killer now, a murderer of his own flesh and blood.


	2. Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the unfortunate outcome of a case, Chloe soothes Lucifer while he tries not to think about how the fire and pain remind him of the brother who had betrayed him.

Chloe Decker was going to be the death of him.  


Maybe that’s supposed to be a figurative statement, said in moments where she aggravates and annoys and worries him to the point where he thinks that she’s giving him grey hairs even though he’s the Devil and he doesn’t _get_ grey hairs, but no. He means it literally. When he dies, it’s going to be for Chloe Decker.  


In the end, that’s all he could ask for.  


If dying would save her, or benefit her in some way, than he would in a heartbeat. Though, ideally, he’d like the death to be quick.  


This was not _quick._ This was slow, and painful and burning. Oddly, it reminds him of the fall, of air blowing past him and the panic as his wings won’t unfurl, won’t spread wide to save him. It’s like the fall, except instead of betrayal, there’s just a lot of pain.  


He can hear her breathing, shaky and unsteady. There’s pressure, on his arms, his face, his neck. There’s cool droplets hitting his face, a mix of soothing and acid that tells him she’s crying. For him.  


His mind churns. Why is she crying?  


The case. They were on a case. Searching a house, the suspect was there, with a bomb. He’d turned his back to the man and shoved Chloe out the door, turning to tackle the bomber and hopefully contain the explosion between their bodies, causing the bomb to fall to the floor as the suspect pushed the detonator. There was a loud boom and a sensation like fire against his legs and a massive push and then nothing. He had saved her, had cared little for the repercussions against him and it reminds him of the fall, of the betrayal, his eyes wide as he let himself be pushed because _he’d trusted him._ They were brothers, _twins,_ and Lucifer had called upon his brother’s name as he fell.  


**Focus.**  


He remembers the Detective. She is all that matters, right now, not any of his siblings, not the betrayal.  


Even if that brother has so much in common with the Detective. He trusted them both, at one point, had cared for them more than he did himself and he would have died for them. And then his brother had chosen Father’s side, had stepped forward when his banishment was announced, but not to help him. His father had been the one to announce his punishment, but Michael had pushed him over the edge, carrying it out. He had closed and locked the gates as Lucifer screamed. Now it’s hard to believe that he had thought highly of him, that he had ever trusted him as completely and utterly as he did. He would have done anything his brother asked, once, and it still hurts that that brother had been the one to banish him while all his other siblings and his mother stood by to _watch._ Millennia has passed and Lucifer still aches over his brother’s choice.  


Chloe’s breath stutters, and she whispers, pleading to herself. “No, no, no, Lucifer. You’re ok, you’re going to be ok.” Her voice was strained tight and she was still crying. Lucifer wasn’t an expert on human behavior, not by any sense of the word, but he has a funny feeling that she’s lying. “Please.”  


He tries to move, tries to open his eyes, tries to move his arms to cup her face and let out a soothing “it’s alright, Detective, I’m alright” or maybe a sarcastic “did you really think a bomb could kill the devil, darling?” He tries to move to do something, but he can’t move. He can’t move.  


This is so much like the fall.  


“Lucifer, please.” She’s sobbing, fingers digging into his flesh painfully as she cries. His heart stings and he forces his mind to concentrate, to open his eyes. She shouldn’t be crying for him, shouldn’t be crying at all, not if he could help it.  


Everything is blurry, like he’s wearing fogged-up glasses. The Detective — Chloe — is there, in bleary focus. Fire burns behind her and she looks like an angel of vengeance, like what humans would imagine his sister Azrael to look like. Beautiful, cunning and surrounded by destruction and chaos, death in her footprints and death before her. Back-lit by the flames, hovering over him, Chloe Decker looks like an angel. He struggles to smile. An angel, how ironic. He tries to tell her so.  


“D’tec’ve, you... you lu’k—”  


“Shh,” she shushes him, eyes wide and blue and scared, though her shoulders loosen some at his failed attempt at speech. “Don’t talk Lucifer, okay? You’re going to be alright.”  


He doesn’t much care if he’s going to be alright, he cares that she’s crying. Her hands hover over his face like she wants to cup it, but she shies away, hands shaking and brushing against the reddened flesh painfully. Struggling, he’s able to flop a hand onto hers. She grasps it and he ignores the electric jolt of pain that happens when she does.  


“You’re going to be alright,” she says, leaning to hover her forehead over his. Her words tremble, shake like a leaf in a tornado.  


Heaving breaths. Sharing air in the tiny bubble between them as they wait. She’s still shaking, hovering over him like she’s afraid to leave. Shuddering breaths, steady tears, Chloe hovers over him like a shield, blocking his view of the dark sky. She's trembling, body shuddering violently as she holds his face and cries. He's never seen her like this, without her composure like this. He's seen her vulnerable before, soft, with her walls down but never like this. She's running purely on instinct, something he hadn't thought her capable of. She'd held her composure when Trixie was taken by Malcolm, but she seems unable to do so now. A worry flashes through his mind, panic clenching his chest even more then all the reminders of the fall.  


“D’tc’ve,” he slurs, trying to squeeze her hand. “You... a’r’ht?”  


She laughs, choked and short. Joyless. Usually Lucifer loves the sound of her laugh, but not this time. “Am I alright? Yeah, I’m alright. You will be too, once the ambulance shows up. Just stay with me, yeah?”  


“Mmm.” He hums his agreement, a failed attempt to say yes. Despite that, his eyes are heavy, his whole body is heavy, and his vision is sliding down and blackening like closing blinds.  


High-pitched panic. “No, no! Lucifer, stay with me. Open your eyes.”  


He fights the heaviness, eyes blearing open again, desperate to please her. He looks at her, her outline shivering against the bright background, the writhing flames. Comically wide, he focuses on holding his eyes open and not on the fact that the backlight of fire reminds him of his brother. No, definitely not.  


She looks at him, her eyes wide and wet. “Just look at me, ok?”  


Tiny bob, he nods his head. Look at her? That was the easiest job in all of his existence. She was beautiful, even when she was crying and reminding him of the brother who had casted him to Hell, who had taken his hard-earned trust and shattered it, stomping it under his heel and playing deaf as his name was cried, as he was begged to for mercy, for help. Looking at her was a privilege, an honor that he’s secretly grateful of his father for but it is a gratitude he will never express. His father had also created Michael and that hadn’t led to anything good, despite the glorious, beautiful beginning that Lucifer still misses sometimes, when he sees other human siblings being close, when he sees families, close, happy, _together._ He had had that, once, and he never would again.  


Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, falling out and straggled, a bad look by any standards, she’s still beautiful. Eyes red and crying, face blotchy, she somehow avoids the label of ugly. A title that most people earn when their defenses drop as they lose everything to tears, but not her. She was still beautiful, even when she was a mess. Good. Trustworthy even to the Devil, who had the least reason to trust anyone, after all the trauma he’s been though. After the fall, after Michael, after he was relegated to being the King of Hell. After he'd sworn to keep his trust to himself, where it couldn't be broken and burned.  


Chloe had broken through all that, demolishing the walls he'd built for his protection with ease. He had found it impossible to know her and not trust her. 

Looking back now, it’s blaringly obvious that she is more then a mere mortal, that Father had had a direct hand in her making. How could he not? She was perfection. She had been put on Earth by his father, had been directly blessed by an angel, the first son, the great warrior himself, to come into being. She was the synopsis of the good of humanity. Even though he’d fought for them, eons and eons ago, sometimes it was easy to let the bad overtake the good. To forget why he’d risked <s>(lost)</s> everything for them. Chloe was a bright light, a reminder.  


She reminded him that humanity was worth saving, worth fighting for. She reminds him why he’d started the rebellion, why he’d fought for free will all that time ago. She was good. So very, very good. He was becoming a better man, for her. Because his words to her on the beach, all that time ago, when she’d kissed him for the first time still ring true. She was an exceptional human and she only deserved the best.  


He was far from the best, would probably never be that, would never be worthy of her because who could be? Chloe was perfection and grace and she deserved someone equally as good and giving as her, which he was not and would probably never be. But for her, he was trying. Maybe that was enough.  


Sirens sound, blaring through the air, getting louder, pounding at his head. He groans as Chole smiles. “You’re okay,” she tells him, hand rounding to curve against his cheek. “You’re gonna be okay.”  


He pulls in a shaky breath. “I’s hot,” he murmurs. His lower half burns, wafting heat and feeling like the skin is peeling off of itself. His right foot, the part of him that had been closest to the blast, to the detonation of the bomb, is concerningly numb.  


The sirens are close now, deafening. He groans, fingers uselessly twitching in a failed attempt to bring them over his ears. Head pounding, his vision gets dotted with black that spreads and takes over, leaving only darkness. The last thing he sees is Chloe’s smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, writing this and alluding to the fall makes me want to write a therapy session where he talks about it with Linda, when she tries to discover the root of his trust issues.


	3. Human Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe does something Lucifer doesn’t expect and leaves him panicking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 2000 words of Lucifer angst. Oops. Think you can handle it? This is where Dan makes his appearance!
> 
> Warnings: blood, gunshot, self-sacrificing behavior (hey, its lucifer, what did you expect?)

Admittedly, Lucifer could be a bit self-sacrificing. Ironic, considering that he’s the Devil, torturer of evil, the King of Hell himself. People usually assumed that sacrifices would be made for him, and there were cults that did, disgustingly. He’s immortal, the first fallen angel and he doesn’t much care for his own wellbeing.  


That’s why he freezes when Chloe jumps in front of a bullet for him.  


He’d been prepared to take it himself, standing idly and in front of her, refusing to let her be in the line of fire when the suspect refused to drop his firearm. The suspect shoots as she pushes her way in front. She falls into his chest and automatically, he pulls her close, turning to place his body between her and the gunman. Time seems to freeze, to come to a standstill except he knows it isn’t because Amenadiel’s powers don’t work anymore and he wasn’t here to begin with. He falls to the floor, cradling Chloe and automatically praying for her wellbeing.  


More irony. The devil praying. For her, he would do anything.  


Something drips onto his pants and soaks into the expensive material and he panics. His hands fly to her chest, painted red in her goodness, her protectiveness, her _love._  


Rage tries to rise, tries to light his eyes in hellfire, but the empty feeling in his chest and the red leaving her body stop him. He’s worried, scared, and he can’t bring himself to be angry. Not angry enough to pull out his nastier side and give the shooter a glimpse of his future, a glimpse of Hell. No, he’s panicking and scared and oblivious to the fact that the shooter had panicked, too, and run off, leaving only them. He was blind to everything that wasn’t Chloe and the tight feeling in his chest.  


“Chloe, darling,” he cradles her face, positioning her head on his lap and trying to convince himself that she’s just tired, that they just watched a movie and she’d just fallen asleep during it. “I need you to wake up.”  


Lightly, gingerly, he slaps her cheek, worry rising when her eyes stay closed.  


Blowing out a shuddering breath, he tries to think. She needs an ambulance, a hospital. Thinking back to the times when he's gotten shot, he mimics what she's done for him. He sheds his jacket, balling it up to press against the epicenter of the bloodstain on her shirt. Unconsciously, Chloe groans.  


“You’re going to be alright, Detective.” With his free hand, he pulls out his phone and scrolls to his Douche contact. Pressing call, he jams his phone to rest against his shoulder and ear and returns his hand to the jacket, keeping pressure on the wound. Dial tone, dial tone, dial tone, he finally picks up.  


"Hello?" 

“Daniel,” he sighs, relieved. “I need your assistance.”  


“Lucifer?” Shuffling sounds over the receiver, rustling fabric. “What’s wrong? Is Chloe okay?”  


“She got shot. We need an ambulance.”  


“Where are you?” Dan’s voice is tight, worried. At the station, his face is scared and his back is straight. “How bad is it?”  


Lucifer looks up, scanning his environment and only seeing the drab interior of the old building, mind fried and focused only on the stillness of Chloe’s body, the blood coating his jacket. He can't think to remember the details of the case they were working on or of the address they were at. “I don’t— I don’t know. There’s a lot of blood.”  


“Keep pressure on it.” His voice comes out hard, commanding, his detective voice that Lucifer never gets to hear. He doesn’t want to be hearing it now, especially with the hidden bit of fear in it as well. There’s more background noise, loud thuds that could be footsteps, keyboard clacking, distant talking. It all blends into static, nonsense noise that just fills his ears.  


“I _am._” He means to bite out the words, to be harsh, but it’s strained, weak, shaking. He’s scared, too, petrified. This is his worst nightmare, in a way. Chloe in his arms, dying, while he's whole and healthy, helpless. He's an angel, the Devil, the _literal_ King of Hell. He's not supposed to be helpless, not in any sense of the word. None of this is supposed to be happening, he's supposed to be able to stop it, he's always been the one to stop it, always. He's always the one to play hero and martyr and take the bullet. Things are easier that way, less painful. Foolishly, he's hoping that that's all this is, a nightmare. He's doubtful. If his millennia of life has taught him anything, its that the worst things are always real. He's dreamt similar scenarios to this before -- countless times, Father knows -- but the empty, sharp feeling in his chest is new. This doesn't feel like a nightmare.  


His lungs stutter as he breaths, hands shaking against Chloe's shoulder, where the bullet had missed the strap of bulletproof vest and dug into soft skin. "Detective, please." He talks to her limp form, feeling like a lost child, something he never was. If this is how it feels, then he’s glad to have never experienced it before. There's something sitting in his throat, choking his words and stinging his eyes. "Wake up."  


In his chest, beside the emptiness, his heart pounds, thumping in his ears, echoing.  


“Lucifer, hey,” Daniel’s voice rises over the din of thoughts, of his own heartbeat. Loud, worried. How long as he been calling his name? “You still there? What’s going on?”  


“She’s bleeding,” he says, unknowingly whispering, keening. _She’s dying._ No, not dying. She wasn’t, he wouldn’t let her, but he didn’t stop the bullet <s> he was supposed to stop the bullet</s>. How could he stop her death? “Where are you?”  


Silence, for a moment, that squeezes Lucifer’s chest, stealing his breath. “We’re three minutes out. Don't worry, Lucifer, she's going to be okay."  


_Okay?_ What part of this was _okay?_ She got shot and he didn't stop it. Her **blood** is on his hands _and that's not okay._  


His chest is in a vice and he can’t breathe. Why can’t he breathe?  


“Daniel,” he chokes out the man’s name like he would one of his sibling’s, like it’s the start of a prayer. He says the male Detective’s name like he’s an angel, like he has to power to swoop in and save her, to stop the blood ruining his Prada jacket from flowing and creating a pool under his knees on the tiled floor. He says his name like it’s his father’s, like he can stop all of this with nothing more then a thought. He’s getting flashbacks to when he was dying, when he’d been desperate enough to plead to his father, to promise anything in exchange for a favor. Somehow this, praying to a _human,_ is worse. Maybe it’s because she’s the one actively dying this time, not him. Maybe its because Daniel is a human and has no power to stop any of this. Either way, her life is hanging from the line, swaying, and it’s a weight on Lucifer that makes him feel the millennia he is.  


“Daniel, please.” He’s begging, voice trembling like he’s afraid but he’s not. He’s not afraid, he’s the Devil and the Devil isn’t afraid of anything. Especially not the soul of a single human. It's certainly no cause for him to beg. "Please." He doesn’t even know what he’s pleading so desperately for, so he can't want whatever it is that badly. Plus, he's not begging. He's the _Devil,_ he's above that.  


“We’re almost there, Lucifer. Just hold on.” His voice has changed again, losing the bite of command to the soft edge of concern. It’s a voice he uses with Trixie, after she’s had a nightmare or scraped her knee. It’s soothing, borderline _loving_ and it’s a tone Lucifer has never heard before. Not directed towards him.  


Then the line goes dead.  


Lucifer can _feel_ the missed beat of his racing heart. The empty feeling in his chest worsens, spreading and getting deeper, hollowing out his bones. He drops the phone, shoulder slackening too much to keep it pinned against his ear. He turns his attention back to the Detective.  


“Chloe, love, you need to wake up now.” He taps her cheek again, spotting it with blood that he flinches at. “Sorry, darling,” he apologizes, pulling up the only façade he can reach, distancing himself from the blood still oozing from her shoulder and instead turning his attention to the smear on her cheek. He blots at it with the cuff of his sleeve, gingerly.  


Something grabs his shoulder and he jumps, swatting at it and dropping Chloe’s head to the floor. He sighs, when he sees Daniel, relieved.  


“Daniel,” he greets, pulling up a flimsy smile. “About time you got here.”  


“Yeah,” he replies, keeping his gaze on Lucifer and off of his ex-wife. He extends a hand. “Come on, man, I’ll drive us to the hospital.”  


Instinctively, at the backwards mention of the Detective, he looks over at her, at the medical personnel surrounding her, lifting her onto a gurney. Something loosens in him, turning him to jelly and rendering him unable to stand, to take his eyes off of her.  


“Lucifer.” Daniel says his name again, clasping a hand to his shoulder and earning his attention. Wide eyed, wet, Lucifer looks at him, swallowing deeply. “She’s going to be okay.”  


“She— she got shot, Detective Espinoza. I couldn’t stop her.” He frowns at the retreating gurney, the team of people leading her away from him. It's for her own good, he knows, but it still hurts to see her leave his sight. There's a stain left behind, his jacket discarded and soaking some of the pool of blood, soft wheel tracks leaving a trail to the outside. Unknowingly, he’s referring to Daniel by the most official title he can, desperately trying to ease the panicky feeling in his chest, the vice that’s not allowing him to breathe.  


Dan softens, at the display of weakness from the Devil. He can sympathize with this reaction. He had become a dirty cop, had shot a fellow officer, to avoid this fate himself, to avoid having her blood on his hands even if it wouldn’t have been his fault, technically. Even if he'd almost, almost traded Malcolm's life and her reputation for that in the process, to avoid the dread that Lucifer is currently feeling. In the end, Palmetto was on his hands more then it was Chloe’s. Crouching, he meets Lucifer’s worried gaze, his guilty gaze. He voices what he thinks he would want to hear, if it was him with her blood on his hands. For the moment, their rivalry is gone, temporarily killed by their shared love of Chloe Decker. “Hey,” he says, “this isn’t your fault. She’s going to be okay.”  


Lucifer shifts to fix his hair, the strand hanging down, but he spots the red on his palm before he makes contact, failing to hide his flinch when he does so, the hitch in his breath. There’s a moment where he’s still, terrifyingly so and uncharacteristically so, worrying. Shifting forwards, onto his knees and off his ass, he plants his forehead against Daniel’s shoulder, causing the man to stiffen. Unknowingly, he’s in a prayer pose, submitting to the human man in a way he never has before to anyone. Not his father or his brothers or his sisters or even Chloe. It is a physical version of his pleading tone from earlier. A silent version of praying, what one does when they cannot bear to speak, when words cannot encompass what needs to be said. He’s only knelt once in his life and that was when he was receiving judgement. “Sorry,” he apologizes weakly. “Give me a moment, Detective, and we can get on our way.”  


“It’s alright, Lucifer.” Hesitantly, Dan places a hand against the taller’s back. “There’s no rush. Everything’s going to be okay.”  


Heart pounding in an empty chest, Lucifer shakes his head. “She got hurt,” he says, walls down, defenseless, bare. “That’s not okay.”  


Sympathetically, Dan moves his other hand beside the first, clenching the expensive shirt in one hand and rubbing circles into it with the other. “She’s going to be fine,” he says. “But she’s going to worry about you if you’re not there when she wakes up, you know.”  


“Yeah.” Lucifer pants into his ear, breathless. “You’re right. Let’s get going then.”  


Standing, Lucifer prims his appearance, straightening his shirt with his fingertips, trying his best not to smear it with any more blood than he needs to.  


Looking at the abundance of blood staining his clothes, his soggy cuffs, his soaked slacks, the smudges along the buttons and collar, he hesitates, meeting Dan’s watchful gaze. “Mind if we make a pit stop on the way, Detective? I’d like to change into something cleaner.”  


Dan smiles wryly, glad to see the old Lucifer, even if the performance was mediocre. “Sure, man,” he says, standing and starting the walk to his car, walking backwards as he mocks the other man's appearance. “You look kinda ugly all covered in blood anyways.”  


Lucifer freezes, offended, confused, hurt, before he recognizes the teasing tone and playful look. Forcing himself to relax, he returns Dan’s grin. “Well, Detective, you're not the one of us with their own brand of handsome, are you?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this part! I got too into it so it ended up longer then I originally thought it'd be, which is cool. Feedback is amazing and makes me happy, and I love all of you who have left kudos or a comment or bookmarked this. Y'all are amazing, seriously.


End file.
